


Lace-Trimmed Lavender

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Dubiously Consensual Crossdressing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, M/M, Season/Series 03, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: “I wish to formally register my objection to this scheme of yours, Bernard.”“Your objection has been duly noted,” Bernard replied. “Now put on the dress.”Stubbs heaved a long-suffering sigh and picked up the lace-trimmed lavender frock.
Relationships: Ashley Stubbs/Bernard Lowe, Bernard Lowe/Ashley Stubbs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Lace-Trimmed Lavender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



“I wish to formally register my objection to this scheme of yours, Bernard.”

“Your objection has been duly noted,” Bernard replied. “Now put on the dress.”

Stubbs heaved a long-suffering sigh and picked up the lace-trimmed lavender frock.

He preferred to be called “Stubbs.” He thought of himself as “Stubbs.” Ashley, as several of his colleagues in park security had taken particular pleasure in reminding him, was also a girl’s name. (Those colleagues were all dead.)

Stubbs caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a storefront window and cringed inwardly. Pigtails. His hair was in _pigtails_. “Were the ribbons really necessary?” he hissed. “We could’ve done without the ribbons.”

“You’re the only one who had the hair for it,” Bernard pointed out. Entirely unnecessarily, Stubbs might add. Smug. He sounded so fucking smug.

“We could’ve put little bows in your beard,” Stubbs muttered. He stepped on the hem of his lace-trimmed lavender frock and nearly planted his face in the pavement.

Bernard wrapped an arm around Stubbs’s waist. The gesture was meant to steady him on his feet, but it also looked possessive. Conveniently. “Shhh. We’re coming up on a checkpoint.”

These Los Angeles elites—they just kept on going and going for hours, even days, on end. By the time one soiree was over, the new one was already beginning, and they moved on together, one indistinguishable, amorphous mass of obscene wealth and insider knowledge. Once you were in, the default assumption was that if you were in, you belonged. The trick was simply to get in in the first place.

So. Right. Party-hopping. It was the safest, surest way to get close to Dolores. Stubbs had agreed.

Or, rather, he _had_ agreed, and then Bernard had shown him the frock he’d be wearing.

“Well, well, well. Aren’t you a pretty one?” some elite asshole said to Stubbs in the sort of high-pitched voice most people reserved for cute, fluffy animals and babies. Stubbs wanted to punch him in the larynx—he wouldn’t be making that high-pitched voice again anytime soon if it were up to Stubbs.

Hopefully he’d mistake the furious squint Stubbs was giving him for something smoky-lashed and coy.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the Crossdressers’ Club before,” the elite asshole continued, wholly unaware of how much his life was currently in danger. “I’m certain I would have remembered—”

“I’m afraid he’s already taken,” Bernard interjected, his smile suavely urbane but apologetic. He planted a rough kiss on Stubbs’s lips. Then he took Stubbs by the elbow and ushered him away from the elite asshole. “Let’s go, _Ashley darling_.”

 _Ashley darling_ : Now Stubbs wanted to punch Bernard in the larynx, too.

“Couples’ night,” Bernard reminded him. “It’s probably best that we don’t look like we’re seconds from breaking up.”

“How much longer? We’ve been here for three fucking hours!”

Bernard checked his watch. “It should be safe to move on to the masquerade soon. Once we’re inside we can take a bathroom break. Then you can ditch the dress.”

“Halle _fucking_ lujah, sing your praise to the Lord,” Stubbs muttered.

Bernard pretended not to hear. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, though, and Stubbs wasn’t fooled, nope, not for one second: Bernard Lowe was enjoying this.


End file.
